


Undone

by nesrynfaliq, pterodactylichexameter



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Bondage, Established Relationship, F/M, Lucien likes to be called high lord in bed what can we say, Power Play, basically the kinky elucien fic we all knew was coming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 13:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9742376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nesrynfaliq/pseuds/nesrynfaliq, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterodactylichexameter/pseuds/pterodactylichexameter
Summary: Elain and Lucien have firmly settled into their roles as High Lord and Lady of the Spring Court, but there's still plenty to learn about their relationship, in and out of bed."She’s entirely bare before him, arching off the bed in pleasure, her breasts peaked and her arms lifted over her head and--Elain sucks in a delicate breath when she sees the silk binding her hands to the headboard, holding her there for him. Her chin is tipped back, cheeks pink and lips parted in pleasure. She can’t hear anything, but the knowledge shoots straight through her that she’s moaning his name, letting out every noise that rises through her. And over her eyes...he’s blindfolded her."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to valamerys for betaing! 
> 
> kink ahead, do with that what you will.

As much as Elain and Lucien have settled into their relationship at the Spring Court, there are a few aspects of fae life (and fae life with  _ Lucien _ ) that she’s still getting used to. For one, she’s accustomed to her body now, the newfound strength in her limbs, but her reflection is… unsettling at times, and even though she likes being here, walking in the gardens and drifting through the flowers, there’s still moments where she longs, painfully so, for her sisters in the Night Court.  

But for all intents and purposes, she and Lucien are a happily mated couple. They have their little spats, bickering moments that are easily resolved with a simple apology and sweet kisses (although after the first week of their mating bond, those moments tend to be resolved now with longer, slower kisses that inevitably end up with her on her back in their bed, his head between her thighs).  And being sworn in as his High Lady--the first in Spring for centuries--proved its own challenge.  She likes being at his side, and she’s found she’s… quite fond of political play in ways she hadn’t even considered. It feels good to be  _ doing something _ .

And yet she still feels… unsettled. As if she’s on the brink of something without knowing what it is. Hanging over the side of a bridge by a single thread that might snap at any moment. 

Lucien can feel it sometimes, her restlessness. He thinks at first, that it’s anxiety from her nightmares. He knows all too readily about those. Ever since they’ve shared a bed, she’s only had one, where she watches her family--Lucien now a part of it--thrown in the Cauldron before her eyes.  She’s never the one in its waters, she only watches, unable to do anything as her family plunges into its iron depths. 

The bond helps.  _ He _ helps. It’s gotten easier to calm herself, too. In the time during the war, Mor had taught her ways to help with it.  And that works. She can calm herself down easily enough on her own but… there’s a comfort in her mate that she’s never known before. He makes her feel  _ safe _ when she’s wrapped the scent that clings to his shirt, clings to  _ her _ . The weight of his arms around her as she nestles into his chest with his breath light against her shoulder. She measures her breathing to the steady pulse of his heartbeat and she  _ trusts _ him.

Now though, that restlessness twists in Elain’s gut. Closing her eyes, she sets down her pen and rubs at her temples, trying to massage some of the tension from them. This letter might have to wait, wait for a time when she’s not frustrated and unsettled. Huffing irritably, she pushes the paper away from herself and walks to the window, arms around herself, as though trying to stop herself crumbling into nothingness.  _ Silly _ , she tells herself, to feel that way, to feel so… temporary. She has a home here, a life here, a male she will be mated to for the rest of her days and yet, and yet…

Taking a breath, she peers out of the window, past the sprawling tangles of ivy that pass over the glass like green cobwebs, most of her own design. She looks down at the grounds below, the gravel path and the rose gardens and the gently sloping lawns beyond them. Lucien’s sentries are training, sparring in groups at his insistence. The war may be over now but her mate has no intention of allowing his-  _ their _ -people to come to harm by any of the foul beasts that remain in the woods. 

She tries to catch sight of her mate, thinking that even that glimpse would be enough to settle her a little now. A faint frown creases between her eyes when she can’t spot him, something that should have been easy. Not all of them have vividly red hair after all. Her confusion has only just started to deepen into worry, her fingers digging almost painfully into her upper arms as she searches a little more insistently for him-

His scent hits her and she turns.

Lucien is standing in the doorway before her, toweling down his hot, sweat damp skin. His shirt is off, slung casually over his shoulder, leaving him bare-chested. The braid he’d woven earlier that morning to bind it back for training has started to come loose, stray strands sticking to his skin.

Elain swallows with difficulty, her mouth growing dry as she looks him up and down, taking him in. In the weeks since they’ve mated she has become...intimately familiar with every part of his body. She’s aware of every inch of him, like a home, something she knows her way around without having to think about. That doesn’t stop the sharp, angled planes of him from being impressive. And it certainly doesn’t stop the heat that coils in her belly at the sight of him standing before her.  

His eyes are fixed on her, the russet one gleaming and dancing like a blazing fire. He’s still breathing heavily, clearly having come straight here from the training and she can feel the energy that still burns in his blood. The thrill of the fight sings in him, hums through his body, making him tingle and pulse with it. She can feel it through the bond, can feel his hunger, his  _ want _ , the way he looks at her. 

Biting her lip, she lets her eyes drag slowly, almost lazily, over his body. He must have known what coming here in this state would do to her. The bond between them isn’t so recent that she feels the need for him every moment, insatiable, never able to have enough of him but...It’s raw enough still that  _ this _ , him coming here half naked, sweat clinging to his skin, his scent almost overwhelming in her nostrils, is always only ever going to lead to one outcome. 

All she wants to do is go to him, wind her fingers through his hair, pull it from its braid and  _ tug _ , draw his lips down to hers and let him claim her the way she knows he longs to. Instead, she shifts her weight slightly from foot to foot then smiles sweetly at him. She makes herself stay where she is, watching that satisfied male smile on his lips become thinner, sharper, eyes glittering, as he realises that she wants to play games with him today. 

“How were the sentries today?” she asks, pulling her hair over one shoulder, glancing down his body.

He takes a moment to respond. “Slow,” he says, and his voice is low, rough, as if he’s been ordering his men around in that voice of his. He’s always had that bite of sheer command, but since he’s been sworn in as High Lord, it seems to have...… aged,  _ matured _ .  With the title behind it, the weight of centuries’ worth of power and authority, it makes a shudder roll down her spine.

He never uses it with her. Not entirely and if it does catch in his words, it’s like this. Never an order. Only a lingering timbre to his voice. A deep part of her that grates against the inside of her head murmurs that she wants it, wants to see what it would be like with that roughness, that measure of  _ authority _ .

“You weren’t too hard on them, were you?” she asks, letting the sympathetic worry ring through. The whole room still rests between them, stone floor spread with thick carpets.

“They needed it.”

There’s a moment of quiet between them and she shifts, feels her heart high in her chest.

“Were you watching us?” he asks, nodding towards the window he’d caught her looking out of when she’d reached through the bond. 

She glances behind her. “Would you like me to?” 

He still hasn’t quite recovered from his training, chest still moving heavier than usual, his fingers playing with his shirt thrown over his shoulder. It’s all too easy to let her eyes drift over him, the flushed notes to his skin from his exertion, the same pink that rises when they’re in bed together. Or out of it, for that matter. There’d been one early morning when she’d found him in the study, had padded in when she’d woken to find her bed empty and he’d perched her on the edge of the desk. She’d urged him into her with her legs wrapped around his narrow hips and felt him groan into the bend of her shoulder.

He cocks his head and heat pounds through her, at the look he’s giving her, like he wants to surge through the space between them and have her there, too desperate to make it to the bed. Lucien is always gentle with her,  _ heartbreakingly _ gentle. But part of her wishes he’d let a little of that restraint go.  

“Let me kiss you, dove,” he says, unmoving.

Elain shifts, trying to ease the friction between her thighs. Neither of them address who is going to cross the room for the other, and she wrinkles her nose, tilting her head innocently. “You’re all sweaty.” 

A smirk pulls at his lips and he pushes back a strand of hair sticking to his forehead. “You only have to touch my mouth.” The fact that he doesn’t specify, that he’s guaranteeing more than just lips will be involved, has her breath catching a little, even at the prospect of a less than chaste kiss.

She purses her lips though, lacing her fingers together in front of her. She likes this, the way they can dance around each other and know exactly what they want.  “You think your High Lord faerie charms will work on me?” 

His smirk widens, showing stark white teeth, the peek of his tongue running over them. She remembers, all too vividly, just what his tongue is capable of. “Don’t they?” he tries, brow lifting in question.

“I think you will be astonished to find that they do not,” she says airily, pushes away from the windowsill and makes towards him, her gaze dropping over his bare chest, down to his stomach, the faint line of hair under his navel.

“And what of your own. . . faerie charms,” he purrs, watching her approach.

She blinks at him innocently, ignoring the way her breath catches as she nears him, the bond practically screaming at them to come together, to stop playing with each other this way, to  _ move _ .  “What charms?” 

He hums. “The ones that make you hold yourself like that,” he says, nodding to her torso.  “To show off your breasts. Your throat.” 

She swallows hard, flushing at his eyes dropping shamelessly over in her, the hunger in them. Hunger she sees but never experiences.  “Is it working?” she only asks, eyes flicking up to his.

“Why don’t you come over here and find out?” 

His voice is still low, still rough; softer than when he’d spoken of his sentries but...A small shiver runs through her all the same at the sound of it. She might have refused him, might have continued to tease, to dance around him just a little more. But there’s a glint in his eye she’s rarely seen before, brought on by the training no doubt but...it’s more than that. It intrigues her enough that she walks slowly forwards, her eyes never leaving his, her steps small but precise, moving until there’s less than a whisper of breath between their bodies. 

Lucien takes her chin between his fingers, not hard enough to hurt but firm, far more pressure than the usual careful, tender touches he lavishes upon her as though she’s made of spun glass. Another flash of excitement bursts through her. She expects him to claim her mouth, arches up a little, seeking the taste of his tongue but he only brushes the tip of his thumb over her lips, a slow, satisfied smirk tugging at his own. Then he ducks his head, kisses her throat, tilts her head up a little higher, giving him better access. Elain lets out a soft whimper. 

Lucien growls low in approval, drawing away slightly to look into her eyes. “You want me,” he says simply. It’s not the usual way he speaks to her in these circumstances. Low and quiet, perhaps a little teasing at times but always infinitely gentle and sweet. She likes the way he’s spoken to her before, likes the care he shows her, his tenderness and kindness and she’s never felt...unsatisfied by that. This though, the way he’s looking at her, speaking to her… He walks that razor thin line between the gentle, affectionate male she’s come to know and the High Lord she’d like to. 

“Yes,” she breathes to him. She doesn’t see any point in being embarrassed by it or softening the truth. From the way his nostrils are flaring slightly she has no doubt that he can scent it on her. 

Leaning in, he draws in a deep breath, lips nuzzling gently at her throat again as though he can’t bear to be this near and not touch her, not kiss her, not claim her. His body is rippling with tension and she knows, knows that he’s holding himself back, that were it down to him he would already have her on the bed, her dress up around her hips while he pleases her with his tongue.

Lucien growls, drawing back slightly, his eyes blazing as he looks up at her, “Is that what you want?” he asks her quietly, “You want my head between your thighs? Making you moan my name.” 

Elain shudders, swallows. Then she reaches up, brushes back his hair, caresses his cheek with her thumb, watches his reactions, the predatory focus he’s studying her with. It doesn’t make her feel unsafe or hunted...It makes her feel special, makes her feel important to be the centre of this male’s attention, to have all of his lust, all of his want focused solely on  _ her _ . 

Biting her lip Elain lets her voice drop down to a purr as she asks softly, “What is that  _ you _ want, my lord?”  

Lucien blinks once. His eyes drag up and down her body, slow, indulgent, stripping her bare without lifting a finger. “Oh I think you know what I want, Elain.” 

Tentatively, she nudges him through the bond, wanting more, wanting details. There had been a...moment, a few days ago when they’d been in bed together. As he neared his climax with her he had growled at her, his voice rough and unearthly, asked that she say his name,  _ now _ . She had whimpered and done as he had obliged but...All the while there had been the sense of something  _ more _ lingering beneath the surface of that voice, that request. She wants him to delve into that, she wants to see, to know, to be allowed to fall in love with every part of this male, her mate. 

Lucien swallows tightly, ducks to kiss her throat, teeth nipping slightly at the soft skin there. “I want you,” he says, slow, careful, as though he weighs each word upon his tongue before he allows it to slip past his teeth. “My mate,” he adds, his voice dropping, taking on that tender cast again, “I just want you.” 

Elain pauses, feeling oddly breathless, as though she’s dancing upon the edge of a cliff about to tumble off the side with only Lucien to catch her at the bottom. Looking into his eyes, knowing him, trusting him, loving him, she lets herself fall. “How?” she asks him quietly. 

She catches the startled flash in his eye a moment before he smothers his surprise. “Elain,” he whispers hoarsely, as though he wants to stop her from going down this path.

She knows why, feels that flicker of dark anxiety through the bond. He’s afraid, afraid of showing her any other side of himself, afraid of letting even a whisper of the blackness that haunts him darken her, afraid that his mate might not want him that way, might not love him that way, might even be repulsed by him. She knows what others think of her, how she comes across; sweet, gentle, naive and innocent. 

Lucien had looked at her in a way that no-one else ever had, had found such strength in her, enough to save them both. But in this...In this he is afraid, afraid of losing something he loves more than he can stand, something he never thought to have- this happiness they have found together. 

“What are you asking?” he murmurs, his eyes fixed on hers, wariness etched in every line of him. 

Reaching up, she cups his cheek in her hand, stroking along that brutal scar with a tenderness that might yet mend the rent it left in his soul. “You know what I’m asking, Lucien,” she breathes softly to him, seeking to calm him.  And it  _ does _ work, she feels it through the bond. His automatic response to her touch on his cheek, the tendril of reassurance she threads across to him. 

“Elain. . .  _ dove _ ,” he starts, as if trying to convince her not to ask this of him.

But she’s not asking simply for his sake and he has to know this. “When I said I wanted you, I meant it,” she tells him simply, biting at the inside of her lip, looking up at him. “I  _ want _ you,” she says, making it clear exactly what kind of want she means. “I want  _ all _ of you, Lucien, every part.”

He draws in a slow breath and she still feels the tension in him as he fights. He doesn’t want to believe it even when he knows she’s telling the truth. He doesn’t want to hurt her. Scare her away. He worries that… she might not really know what she’s asking for. 

“I see you,” she whispers, stepping in closer, pressing their bodies together, “And I am not afraid of anything, not with you. I  _ want _ everything.” 

Lucien’s throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes fixed on hers, as though he means to drown in her. 

“Please,” she murmurs quietly, “I’m sure. I want it, I want you, now…” she takes his hand, draws him towards the bed, stands on her toes and whispers softly, “Show me what you want from me.” 

Lucien wets his lips, searches her eyes, a line between his furrowed brows. He seems to take a moment, still deciding on whether or not he wants to go down this road with her, wants to show whatever is lurking beneath the surface, out of sight of the bond, what he’s kept hidden from her. And part of her aches at the thought of him keeping anything from her, that he should feel that despite everything, all the love, the friendship that’s sprouted between them, he still thinks it’s a possibility that she could be frightened of him in any capacity. 

He gently takes her hand in his, calloused thumb running over the back of her knuckles. He sets the shirt, the towel, to the side, sits down on the edge of the bed and guides her next to him.  Elain blinks at him, her mate in all his hesitation. The moments he lets his guard down like this for her, when he’s  _ not _ sure of himself, isn’t sly grins and satisfied smirks, are precious. That she gets to see this part of him. And that he’ll let her see it.

Wordless, he leans over and she meets his lips in a soft kiss that’s barely more than a gentle pressure, a reassurance, if anything.  “If you’re sure, Elain,” he murmurs, hovering close to her mouth.

She nods, suddenly breathless between the kiss, even a gentle one, meets his eyes, so close she can see a fraction of a seam in the metal one, the russet one unblinking as he gauges her reaction, looking for even the slightest hesitation. When he finds none, though, he leans forwards again, presses another quick kiss to her lips, as if he can’t stop. “Close your eyes,” he murmurs and she nods, shifting up so one leg is on the bed and she can face him, even if she can’t see him.

She feels him draw in a deep breath, widen the bond and it’s only then that she realizes how  _ small _ he’s been keeping his side of it during their conversation.

The wanting hits her first. Primal, yearning  _ need _ that shoots straight to her core when she knows that all of this is for her.  It pulses through the bond, hot and hungry and her breath hitches when he gently guides her into an image, a scene, a  _ fantasy _ , he has playing in his head at her request.

She wanted details? Here they are, he seems to say, putting everything out in the open. 

_ Oh _ .

She hadn’t quite known what she’d been expecting.  Hadn’t quite dared to broach any particular image. 

They’re in their bedroom, on  _ this _ bed. The edges melt away into nothingness and everything feels too bright, like the colors are wrong.

What she sees, however, is far from wrong.

She’s entirely bare before him, arching off the bed in pleasure, her breasts peaked and her arms lifted over her head and-- 

Elain sucks in a delicate breath when she sees the silk binding her hands to the headboard, holding her there for him. Her chin is tipped back, cheeks pink and lips parted in pleasure. She can’t hear anything, but the knowledge shoots straight through her that she’s moaning his name, letting out every noise that rises through her. And over her eyes...he’s blindfolded her. 

Her breath is suddenly all too difficult to catch because Lucien is there, head between her thighs as he feasts on her. The scene melts, changes to him over her, positioning himself and sliding into her, all too easy with how wet she is.  He’s lifted over her on one elbow, tipping her chin back as he’d done just a few moments ago in the room. But it’s rougher in the image he’s giving her, entirely demanding, guiding her body where he wants it.

That submission, the trust that she’s offering up in this…

Lucien bites down on her neck as he thrusts into her, hand finding her breast, her peaked nipple.

Elain’s mouth goes dry, and just like that, the vision fades. 

She doesn’t realize she’s breathing so heavily until she blinks her eyes open, cheeks hot, and finds him studying her, expression firm. 

“Lucien,” she whispers, breathless, her eyes wide but he turns away from her, pulling away, hunching away from her and her heart breaks for him. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, shaking his head, making to rise from the bed, “I should never-” 

“Lucien look at me,” she interrupts him quietly. 

He turns to her, startled, she rises from the bed, slow, composed, regal. The High Lady of the Spring Court in every way as she raises her chin and faces him down. She would never have done this before mating him, would never have interrupted anyone, no matter what they were saying. She would have sat quietly, demurely, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes fixed firmly upon them. If she had dared at all it would have been a small, irritable comment after the argument was done. But now she finds that she won’t stand for her mate saying these things, feeling  _ ashamed _ before her. 

Elain walks towards him, letting him see her blown pupils, scent the arousal on her. “I want that,” she whispers softly onto his lips when they’re close enough to kiss, dangling on a wire above the abyss that beckons before them. Dark and wicked and unknown but...so thrilling she doesn’t think she could ever resist it, even if she wanted to. 

He pulls away from her touch and she feels it strike at her soul as though he’s struck her. “Elain you-” He pauses, his hands clench into fists, unclench, then, with the veneer of composure but a bite to his words, “You don’t have to say- You don’t have to feel obliged to- Just because I want this you don’t have to-” 

She lets out an irritated little noise of contempt, unable to help herself stamping her foot on the floor in her exasperation. Lucien turns back to her, looking a little perplexed by her reaction. “I’m not some cowering frightened mortal girl who must have everyone else make choices for her because she is incapable of knowing her own mind.” She tells him quietly, firmly, stepping towards him, refusing to let him draw away from her this time. “I am the High Lady of this court,” she asserts firmly, “I am your wife, your  _ mate _ .” he raises his head slowly, his eyes meeting hers at those words, the certainty in them. 

With a slow smile, Elain takes his hand in one of hers and slowly drags the skirts of her dress up out of their way with the other. Slowly, she guides his hand between her thighs. Instinct takes over and his fingers gently nudge the lace of her underwear aside, sliding gently through her folds. His eyes flutter shut, his jaw clenches even as he hisses a breath out between his teeth at how wet she is. For him. At what he’s shown her.

“I want you,” she tells him simply as he withdraws his hand slowly, a look of something close to awe blazing in his eyes. Then, letting her voice soften, becoming gentler, sweeter, meeker, she adds, “Please, High Lord.” 

He closes his eyes, sucks in a shallow breath through his nose, still trying to pull himself together even now.  But then he opens them again, looks at her, expression suddenly firm. It takes him a moment, cocking his head and looking at her and the darkness, the  _ hunger _ in his eyes has her heart reeling, beating quick like a rabbit’s in her chest. 

She stays still, frozen, only her breaths coming quicker, heaving, as he leans forward, slowly, letting her pull away if she wants. He swallows and she follows the movement of a strand of hair drifting away from the side of his neck as he leans into her, presses his lips to hers.

If either of them stopped, pulled back, it would be as gentle as the ones before it. But then she lets out a slight murmur of his name and he’s kissing her harder, lips moving hungrily against hers. His hand finds her waist and she can feel her flush spreading down to her chest when he parts her lips, tongue sliding into her mouth.

He’s been like this before with her, possessive in a way, claiming her, but it’s always been in the heat of the moment, when they’re both already panting and clinging to each other and he’s already in her.  When she doesn’t shy away from him, his hand shifts into her hair, cupping the back of her neck as he tilts her head, kisses her again, harder,  _ deeper _ .

Usually she would give back as much as she’s getting, she wouldn’t let him take over entirely, but she does this time. She lets him kiss her until she’s breathless and her hands are fluttering about his bare chest, his shoulders.  When the hand at the back of her head trails down, finds the back of her knee through her skirts and  _ pulls _ her to him, a surprised noise falls out of the back of her throat.

The way he touches her, hands roaming over her shoulders, her back, has her entirely pliant in his arms as he tugs her into his lap. “Lucien,” she murmurs, biting her lip when she feels his deft fingers at the laces on the back of her dress. He pulls at them roughly, jerking them free, farther and farther down her back like he wants nothing more than to have her bare before him. 

“Are you going to address me properly this time?” he growls.

Heat throbs suddenly between her thighs at the authority in his voice. Her thin shift already feels damp with sweat. “Yes,” she says breathlessly, “High Lord.”  

With a growl, Lucien tugs the last lacings of the dress free and it hangs loose, a shell that once contained her. “Good,” he murmurs, almost absently, hands running softly up and down her arms, “Very good.”

Elain quivers against him at the praise and at the restraint she can feel from him. There’s a delighted hunger dancing in his russet eye. Hiis hands shake ever so slightly as he touches her. He  _ wants _ this, is trying to control just how  _ much _ he wants this, trying to hold himself back. She decides not to push him, to let him test her boundaries, let him truly see how much she trusts him, wants to be together like this.  

Lucien coaxes her out of her dress, his hands firm and sure but not rough, not yet. His eyes rove hungrily over her body, taking in every inch of her. She watches him catalogue the faint pink blush spreading over her chest, the light sheen of sweat coating her skin, the way she pants for breath, lips slightly parted. 

“You’re incredible,” he rasps to her, his voice harder and rougher than it’s ever been before with her. The praise on its own is one thing, but the way he says it now...The only time she’s ever seen him like this was immediately after the mating bond snapped into place between them. After that first time, they had been unable to keep their hands from each other. That had been desperate, frenzied desire, however, and this, this is different, she can tell. This is darker, more calculated but more instinctual all at once. It sends a thrill pulsing through her body. 

“Lucien please I-” she whimpers faintly. She wants his hands on her, those long, elegant fingers stroking through her folds, his tongue driving her wild the way she knows he can, but she breaks off before the soft snarl ripples from his throat. “My lord,” she murmurs quietly, demurely, instead, “My lord, please, I want-” 

He drags his eyes slowly from where they had been eyeing her breasts as he traced her peaked nipples lightly through the thin fabric of her shift. Elain swallows, trembling, the throbbing between her thighs reaching its pitch at the way he looks at her, the russet eye nearly black. “Yes dove?” he prompts, his voice light and silken, “What do you want?” 

She can sense something waiting for her on the other side of this answer, some cliff she’s about to tumble off of, hidden in the long, lush grass. Inviting, enticing, but hidden behind it is something she has not yet seen coming. She hesitates. Lucien raises an eyebrow, “Your High Lord asked you a question, dove,” he says quietly, just a flicker of bite to his words. “Answer me.” 

Closing her eyes, gripping the sheets tightly in her fist to try and anchor herself to something Elain does as she’s told. “I want you, my lord,” she tells him quietly. He gestures with a hand for her to elaborate. Again she obeys. “I want your, your mouth on me. I want your tongue on my clit. I want, want your fingers on me-  _ in _ me.” 

Lucien nods slowly as she lists the things she wants him to do to her, his fingers lightly circling the soft skin of her thighs, hand resting at the hem of her shift, not pushing it up, not yet, content to wait, to tease. “You like those things?” he asks her evenly.

“Yes,” she says at once, heat tightening in her core and she wants him, she just wants him to give her the things that she needs. “You,” she breathes, wondering if perhaps she hasn’t properly answered his question as he wanted; if that’s why he continues to trace soft patterns over her skin without doing anything more, “I want you, my lord.” 

His eyes snap back to hers so quickly that she feels her heart stutter. “Really?” he muses softly, his tone making it quite plain that he expects no response from her to that. His fingers resume their idle murmuring over her thighs, “And what do  _ I _ want, Elain?” he demands, voice hardening. 

Elain’s mouth goes dry as she blinks up at him, feeling suddenly breathless, as the room has been drained of all its air. “You want...You want me,” she ventures slowly. 

A slow smile spreads over Lucien’s face and he shifts, pushing her beneath him, crawling towards her, nudging her back up towards the top of the bed. She goes where he wills her and when she feels herself collide with the pillows near the headboard he stops simply holds himself over her, his smile thin and wanting. “That’s right, dove,” he purrs softly, leaning down to kiss her neck, nipping gently with his teeth until she gasps, “I want you,” she shivers but he’s not done with her yet. “I want you to do exactly as I say. I want you to take what I give you. I want you to thank me for it. I want you to beg me for more. Do you understand?” 

Elain nods, her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide, utterly consumed by the male above her. “Yes,” she whispers quietly. 

Lucien strokes a finger softly across her cheek, lovingly brushing back a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “So I’ll ask you again,” he says softly, “What do you want, Elain?” The use of her name trembles through her and she knows...Knows that this is him asking, once more, if she truly wants to go forward with this. He’s stripped himself bare for her, shown her how this will be, what rules he expects her to follow and now...Now it is her choice. 

Taking a deep, slow breath, Elain looks straight into his eyes as she says softly, simply, “I only want to please you, my lord.” 

Lucien registers her acceptance, her decision, in impassive silence for a heartbeat. Then his face splits into a slow, satisfied smile, “Good girl,” he purrs warmly. 

She knows he can hear her heartbeat, both from behind the bond and in her chest, the way it quickens with the praise. They’ve done a little of this before. He’ll tell her how beautiful she is as he’s kissing back up her body, will say how much he loves it when she makes that sound, when she’s wet for him. Good girl isn’t entirely new but it’s never been like this before.

“I want you to take off the rest of your clothes, pet,” he says, as clearly as if he were asking her to meet him for a walk in the gardens after a meeting.  “I want to see you.” 

She swallows, still lying back as he rises off of her slightly, props himself up on one elbow to watch her, all lazy satisfaction as he motions for her to continue. 

Elain looks at him as she pushes herself up, sits up to wiggle out of her shift. Their room stays relatively cool but it feels hot when the air hits her bare skin, flushed at everything running through her mind.

His approval rolls through the bond and she shudders under the gaze he drags over her bare form, eyes catching on her hips, her thighs as she leans back, lifts slightly to pull her underwear down her legs, casts them away. 

She’s going to ask what next, since he doesn’t seem to be moving anywhere anytime soon, content to look at her. And the wait--the fact that he’s lying there, sprawled out like a panther, making her  _ wait _ for him to do something, that has her shifting under his gaze, hands at her sides. 

Before she can speak, though, he says, in feigned casual indifference, “Touch yourself.” 

Elain sucks in a shallow breath of surprise. “Where?” 

He cocks his head, as if contemplating the options at his fingertips.  “Your breasts first.” 

She shudders at the implication of  _ first _ , a subtle promise in itself.  Trying to control her breathing, she lifts her hands, lets them drift up over her stomach before finally rising where he wants them.

She goes slowly at first, practically drunk on the way he’s looking at her, watching her every move with calculated hunger. Lucien keeps quiet, only observing, and finally, when her thighs are pressed tightly together and her nipples are peaked under the attention of her hands, he gives a growl.

“Stop,” he says clearly and she glances over at him, pausing. 

Through the bond, she can feel his pounding, relentless need to surge forwards, claim her, push her down into the mattress and fuck her until she can’t comprehend anything but what it feels like to have him in her, over her. 

“Tell me how wet you are.” 

Elain bites her lip, trying to hold in her groan. “Yes, my lord.” They’ve barely started and she already feels as if she’s about to combust.  She knows, can feel the slickness between her thighs anyway, but she traces a hand down, lets her fingers slip through her folds and gives a moan, pressing over her clit.

Lucien growls softly, his lithe fingers closing around her wrist. “I told you to tell me how wet you were for me, dove,” he purrs lightly, “I didn’t tell you it was time to play.” Elain whimpers softly and Lucien releases her hand and raises an expectant brow, “Well?” he prompts, voice like liquid steel, hard and unyielding but...bright and oddly beautiful at the same time. 

“I’m so,  _ so _ wet my lord,” she whispers softly, her body shaking. “So wet for you. I want-” she breaks off, remembering his lessons from earlier. Swallowing she softens her voice, dares to inch a little closer to him where he’s still spread out on their bed, all languid, angular lines, watching her with something close to regal indifference. Except that she can feel his hunger slamming against her through the bond, no matter how much he tries to mute it. “I’m ready, my lord.” 

Lucien lets a slow smile drag across his lips at that. He stretches out a hand, softly strokes his fingers through her brassy hair, still smiling at her. “You’re a clever girl, aren’t you pet?” he praises her lightly, “Learning how to play these games so quickly.” 

“Yes, High Lord,” she breathes, quivering with anticipation as his fingers drag down over her lips, her chin, down the slender column of her throat, down over her breasts, her stomach, her navel, drifting softly over her inner thighs. She shakes, waiting for him to drag his fingers up to where she wants them, willing herself not to let her hips rise from the bed, sure he’ll only push her back down, tell her off for not behaving for him.  

“Show me,” he tells her quietly, his eyes glittering, “Show me what you’re ready for, dove.” 

Elain whimpers again and knows better than to try and coax his hand between her thighs, though that’s what she really wants. Instead she swallows, slides her own fingers between her slick folds again, easing up to her clit, pressing against it the way she likes. She opens the bond between them, lets him feel what this is doing for her, feel the wetness between her thighs for himself. He growls faintly, tensing beside her, but doesn’t order her to stop so she widens it a little further, letting every messy pulse of pleasure spill over to him as well. 

Lucien watches her, lips pressed tightly together, eyes fixed firmly on her face, never once drifting to the hand moving between her legs, only wanting to watch her, see the pleasure reflected back to him. She keeps waiting for him to stop her, he can feel her through the bond, knows how close she must be. When her other hand finds her nipple again, teasing it, trying to bring herself closer, she’s sure he’ll ask her to stop, won’t want her to make herself climax, a task that belongs only to him. But Lucien only watches, letting her build herself higher and higher and higher until she’s writhing on the bed, head tipped back, hips arching, the sheets beneath her a tangled mess. Sweat beads her skin and she moans incoherently, close, so close. All thoughts of Lucien watching her have been driven from her mind, there is only the pleasure tightening in her core, how much she wants this release, how much she  _ needs _ it, how hard she’s going to come with her mate’s eyes on her, how- 

“Enough.”  

Lucien’s voice is soft, quiet, but the authority in it vibrates through every part of her being. Elain cries out in anguish as she makes herself pull her hand away she trembles, whimpering, body still shaking, legs still moving over the sheets in her agitation and her need. And then her mate is there, finally having peeled himself away from where he’d been lying beside her. He’s holding himself over her, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her lips slowly, deeply, stroking his fingers through her hair. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs to her, “What a good girl you are for me, pet, such a good girl doing as you’re told for me.” She trembles, whining faintly every time his skin brushes against hers, flushed and hot and desperate. “I know,” he soothes her quietly, “I know, you’re so close, aren’t you?” She nods her head, whining urgently, unable to stop her hips from lifting from the bed, seeking him. “You want to come, don’t you dove?” 

“Yes,” she gasps, her eyes clamping tightly shut, her body trembling, “Yes, please, Lucien-” she chokes on the word, on the pleading as she realises what she’s said. “High Lord,” she corrects quickly, “I want it, I do. I want to come, please, please. I’ve been- I’ve been a good girl. I’ve been good, I just want-  _ Please _ .” 

Lucien strokes a hand gently through her soft curls, “You have been very good, haven’t you?” he murmurs quietly and she desperately nods her agreement. His fingers ease down, softly stroking her damp thighs, “Will you say my name?” he asks, his voice becoming a little rougher, his fingers drifting higher, “Will you say my name when I make you come for me, pet?” 

“Yes,” she promises him, not sure how much more of this she can stand, “I will, I will, my lord, I will, I promise I-” she arches from the bed as he easily slides two fingers into her, his thumb pressing lightly over her clit. Gripping the sheets in both hands she does as she swore to him she would and cries out his name as he starts to gently pump his fingers inside her. 

Elain grapples for something to hold onto, his shoulder, his hair pulled over his shoulder, just something to grasp onto against the pleasure of his fingers.  “Lucien,” she murmurs, nails digging into his shoulder, her other hand fisting in the sheet. He’s moving the way he knows will work her up, not quite enough to finish her, not even when she’s as desperate for it as she is.

He nudges her cheek, and the kiss he presses there would be sweet in another context, but then he’s nuzzling over to her ear, drawing her earlobe between his teeth.  “I want to hear you.” 

And she knows he doesn’t mean through the bond. 

Elain whimpers.

“Come now, pet, is that really all you can give me? I know you’re holding back,” he murmurs, angling his fingers slightly different in her so she’s letting out another moan. 

She tries to get his name out, manages it, breath caught high in her throat. Her toes curl against the duvet and she can’t resist pressing up into his hand, against the pressure of his thumb rubbing over her clit.

It’s easy to forget the bond is still open, that he can feel her reaction to every touch, every thought, every want that runs through her mind. She feels him smirk against the corner of her jaw, laying a kiss there, tongue hot against her skin.  “Do you want that?” he asks and she doesn't even know which need he’s talking about, a mix of desire, tension gripping her body, amorphous  _ need _ , all jumbled together.

“You like my fingers but I know you want my cock.” 

She cries out at the mental image he sends her, clearer than the last one, because it’s a memory this time.  Of the view of her back, bent over his desk, her dress bunched up around her waist as he thrusts into her. There’s papers bunched under her hands, head turned to the side as he fills her again and again and again.

“Yes,” she gets out, words running together as she tells him she wants that, wants everything he can give her. Everything he  _ has _ to give her.

“You’re being so good for me, dove, aren’t you?” 

“I’m so close, Lucien, I--” she whimpers, panting.

He quickens his pace ever so slightly, and she can feel herself there, right on the edge of the precipice, just needs one last--

“Did I say you could come yet?” he growls, pulls back from the side of her neck. His fingers though, don’t stop.

She lets out a low whine, head falling back onto the pillow as she tries to control herself, to hold back against the heat throbbing through her, insistent. “No, High Lord.” 

Elain wonders, momentarily, why they haven’t done this before. She’s never been unsatisfied with anything he’s done to her, and she doesn’t want his fingers to stop--might sob if they do--but she wants,  _ needs _ him in her. Wants to hold onto his shoulders as he sinks into her, needs to feel his satisfaction through the bond when he does.

“You don’t come until I tell you to, do you understand?” he says, voice even, rough, and the cool, collected clarity of what he’s telling her when she’s so thoroughly ruined, writhing and  _ begging _ for his touch.

She nods, manages to get out a “Yes, High Lord,” letting her head fall back when he leans down again, pressing a light kiss to her skin. 

“That’s my good girl.”  

Elain whimpers again. He’s never been shy with his praise in bed. Even that first time, when everything was still so new and she was half consumed by desire barrelling through her from the newly sealed bond between them and half terrified at doing this, at doing it wrong, at making a mistake and doing  _ everything _ , he hadn’t been shy. He had taken his time with her and between every kiss, every touch, every throb of pleasure that had burned through her he had peppered her with small, heartfelt compliments. He had stroked back her hair and whispered how beautiful she looked. He had heard her moan for him that first time and told her he loved it, loved every sound she made for him. When he had slid inside her that first time he had groaned and whispered, voice a heady cocktail of ecstasy and awe, that she was perfect. 

But this...This is beyond anything she’s ever experienced with him before. Mere words make her want him. Even when she had been an ignorant, mortal girl who had swallowed all of the lies that had been fet to her about faerie tricks and magic she would never have believed it if someone had told her the effect that this male’s words could have on her. Her heart beats faster, her skin flushes hot, her chest tightens, her head tips back, her lips part and a moan slips free of her throat without him so much as laying a finger on her. 

There’s nothing but satisfaction written all over Lucien’s face as he slides his hand between her thighs again, stroking lightly through her folds. It’s not enough, it’s nowhere near enough, she needs pressure on her clit, needs him building her up as he had been earlier, hard and fast and certain. She needs something inside her, she needs the release that she was moments from before he denied her. And he knows it, the smug bastard- 

A glimmer of dark amusement reaches her down the bond, reminding her that the bond is still open, that he can feel everything she can, hear everything that she’s thinking. He draws his fingers away from her and she cries out at the loss of contact. Lucien instead fists his hand deep into her hair, pulling sharply, making her gasp, her eyes snapping open to meet his. 

“I thought you were going to behave for me, pet,” he growls quietly in her ear, nipping sharply at her earlobe. 

“I was, I- I am,” Elain tries to insist, trembling beneath him, his body hovering so close to hers. He’s still fully clothed but she can feel how much he wants her, what he’s getting out of all of this. “I am, my lord, I am, I-” 

“No,” he snarls, pulling her hair again until she whines for him. His expression changes, she senses a pulse of intrigue through the bond as he cocks his head slightly, looking down at her, his expression changing, softening. He lets some of the tension leave the hold, lets his fingers slide more deeply into her soft curls, stroking her head with the tips of his fingers. “Do you like that, pet?” he asks her softly, his voice laced with hungry curiosity, “Do you like it when I pull your hair?” 

Elain nods, whimpering her approval when he gives another sharp, experimental tug. Lucien’s lips bloom into a soft, slow smile, “You are good, aren’t you?” he purrs to her and she nods again, unable to stop herself crying out when he eases his fingers between her thighs again, testing again this new way he’s found of ruining her at the same time. “You’re close? So close, so desperate to come for me.” 

“Y-Yes,” she pants, arching into him. She wants his fingers inside her, wants him to keep pulling her hair as he works her higher, wants everything, needs it. 

“Are you going to come, dove?” he asks her, sliding two fingers easily inside her, his rhythm fast and controlled, designed to tip her over the edge. Elain cries out again, arching against him and shoves her answer through the bond to him, unable to form the words to tell him that yes, yes she is, she will, if he makes her, if he wants her to, please. 

Lucien smiles, wicked delight sparking in his eyes at her response. He slides his thumb over her clit, his eyes fixed on her face, wanting to watch every slight crease and whisper of pleasure that pulses through her in response to what he’s doing to her. Leaning down he presses his lips flush against her ear, “Come,” he whispers softly to her and she gasps. Close, so close, so close, so- “Come for me, Elain,” he growls and this time the words are not a request, not a gentle coaxing, they’re an order. “Now,” he adds harshly, tugging sharply on her hair again and at last, at last Elain feels herself shatter for him. 

Lucien guides her gently through it, his fingers slowing and finally stopping, the hand in her hair loosening its hold, stroking soothingly instead, gently rubbing her throbbing scalp. He praises her as her body trembles and she starts to slowly return to herself, coming back down with every soft pass Lucien’s hands make over her skin. Her eyes are closed, her skin sweat slicked, her body is shaking uncontrollably...But a broad smile spreads across her lips and she wonders why they’ve never done this before, why they waited so long, why he could ever have thought she wouldn’t relish every moment of this. 

It’s...Exhilarating to give herself over to him so fully, to trust another so much that she would submit entirely to them, give them everything, obey every order, allow them to do whatever they will with her. She trusts him, her lord, her mate, her soul partner, and she likes being able to show him that in this raw, near primal way. She can feel his satisfaction, his pleasure, his pride, through the bond and she wants to do that again for him. She can feel him easing down, softening again, slipping off the thrilling mask he had worn for her then, turning his back on this darker side of himself, thinking that perhaps she doesn’t want any more but...She does. 

Lucien makes to gently settle down beside her, a flicker of concern in his russet eye. She knows he’s about to ask her if that was alright, if she liked it, if she was comfortable, if it was too much but...Heat still throbs between her legs and she knows, knows the effort it’s taking to do this for her, to cool himself back down when he’s nowhere near done with her. 

Halting him, Elain nudges him back over her, smiling even as she pants beneath him. He reaches down, cupping her face in his hand, stroking softly with the ball of his thumb, his eyes gentle but beneath that she can still see the simmering hunger. Softening her expression, blinking demurely up at him she asks softly, lightly, hoping he understands, “What would you like to do with me now, High Lord?” 

Lucien blinks, clearly startled by this and strokes his fingers tenderly through her hair. “Elain,” he says, his voice gentle and so unlike the rough, commanding tones that had gone straight between her legs earlier. “That’s enough for now, we don’t have to go any further tonight, we-” 

“I want to,” she interrupts him. Quiet. Firm. Her eyes never leave his, never faltering, never wavering and he stares down at her, confronted by her needs, her desires, her pleasures and she knows that’s not something he can resist. She knows too that even if was holding himself over her, has her bound so tightly to the bed she could barely breathe, was telling her heart when it was allowed to beat, she would still be in control. 

With this realisation she takes a deep breath then, without breaking eye contact with Lucien she reaches into a pocket realm and withdraws what she wants. Pressing it into his hand she watches Lucien’s eyes widen as he looks down at the long, slender strips of black silk that she’s pulled out for them. “Besides,” she murmurs quietly, carefully watching his expression, “You aren’t finished with me, yet.” 

She feels his breath catch in his throat as his fingers slip lightly through the strips of watery silk.  He takes them in for a moment, gauges her expression, the way she’s looking entirely at him, not the fabric held between them. They drift over her stomach and she nearly shudders at the prospect of them binding her wrists, at  _ Lucien _ binding her wrists over her head.

He doesn’t ask her this time, if this is really what she wants. She can see the doubt in his eyes vanishing as he takes her in, her supplication before him, under him, waiting for him to make the first move, one that’s his to make. 

Face firm, lips a bowed line, Lucien reaches up with his free hand where he’s not holding himself over her, traces her cheek, the corner of her mouth with the back of one finger. Her lips part at the brush of his thumb, breath puffing across the calloused pad of his finger as he watches her, presses down slightly on the flesh under his touch.

She brushes her tongue over his thumb, watching his nostrils flare. He pushes slightly farther, just to her teeth, and she can taste herself on his skin. 

“You want me to tie you up, dove?”

She sucks in a breath through her nose, nods.

“And is that something you think I want too?” 

She shifts against him where he’s lying half on top of her, thigh pressing into him where he’s straining at the laces of his trousers. “Yes.” 

“You think that just because I’m hard, I want to see you bound against the headboard?” he asks again, curious, drawing his hand down her jaw, pressing her chin up firmly so he can kiss her throat, teeth scraping over her jumping pulse. 

“Yes, High Lord.”

He pauses at the name, considers her for a moment.

Being made to wait like this, as he looks her over, is all the answer she needs.

And then slowly, his fingers slide down her forearm, grasping her wrist.  She holds his gaze as he brings it up over her head. She draws in a quick breath when he rises off of her to take one of the strips of fabric, tilting her head up to watch his quick fingers slip the silk through the carved wood pattern of the headboard, wrapping it around her wrists.

It’s firm enough that she can’t move her arm--she tests it--but loose enough that it’s not pinching, cutting off circulation. 

Her other wrist next, and when that one is finished, he shifts, lifting up on his knees, facing her with a leg on either side of her hips. The final strip of black silk rests on her stomach, slipping slightly over her skin with each breath.

Lucien picks it up with delicate fingers and if he weren’t kneeling over her, she’d reach her hips up, press into him, anything to relieve the throbbing already heating her core. He can feel it, that spike of need that arose the moment he pushed her wrist into place. He doesn’t have to reach between her thighs to know how wet she is.

The last strip lingers in his fingers and he pauses, eyes flicking over her bare form, from her hands bound over her head down to her face, her breasts, the movement of her stomach as she breathes. She sees the hunger in his gaze, casual, like he’s going to take his time with her. 

“Please,” she gets out in a breathless whimper, face heating when his eyes snap back up to hers.

“You think this is about what  _ you _ want?” he asks, urged with her approval through the bond, her submission, reassurance that this is what she wants. And she wants  _ more _ .

“No, High Lord,” she says, voice small, and he growls his satisfaction. 

She nearly stops breathing when he straightens out the strip of fabric, leaning forwards to cover her eyes. “Good girl,” he purrs, voice next to her ear as her vision goes dark. She lifts her head for him to tie it just tight enough that it won’t slip off.

Everything feels stronger, like she can feel every inch of her skin all at once, hyper aware of what’s going to happen. His hair falling over his shoulder as he nips at the point of her ear, the warmth of his stomach hovering just shy of her abdomen, the brush of the fabric of his trousers against her outer thighs. 

“You’re already so wet for me, aren’t you, pet?” he murmurs, voice as soft as the silk wrapped around her wrists. But there’s an edge to it, a danger to what he’s telling her, like he’ll snap at any moment.

She nods, feels him sink down her body, weight dipping the mattress. His lips withdraw from her skin and she doesn’t know where he is until she gasps, arches, at the sudden wet heat of his mouth closing over her nipple.

“Lucien-” she can’t help but moan, arching into him, hands jerking against her restraints at the urge to hold onto him, his shoulders, bury her fingers in his thick hair.

“Is that any way to address your High Lord?” he asks, voice razor thin, sharp, drawing away from her breast.

She swallows, breathing shallow. “No, High Lord.”

A finger drifts down her stomach and she sucks in, trembling against his touch. It’s the barest brush of a calloused pad of his finger, enough to have chills rippling through her limbs. Her nipples harden at the slow press of his mouth again, on the side of her breast.  At her light moan, his teeth scrape over her skin, biting her just a little more roughly than before. 

“I’m going to taste you first,” he murmurs, and she fights to compose herself, eyes shutting even against the muted blackness of her blindfold. It’s not a request, it’s a promise. “You’re going to come around my fingers, again. With my tongue on your clit.” He traces over to her other breast, the flat of his tongue pressing over her nipple right before he  _ sucks _ and- “You’re going to come when I tell you to, do you understand?” 

She lets out a long moan. “Yes,” 

The heat of his mouth breaks away from her skin and suddenly his hand is in her hair.

“Yes  _ what _ ?” 

“Yes, I understand, High Lord,” she says quickly, wishing that he  _ would _ pull her hair. That she could feel the harsh tug of it, the pain that sinks straight through her to the pit of her stomach.

“Tell me then,” he growls, giving her hair an insistent pull. “what I’m going to do to you.” 

She lets out a shallow breath, pausing for a moment, cursing, trying to pull herself together. This male… “You’re going to use your tongue on me first.” 

“And?” he demands sharply.

“Your fingers. You’re going to have two fingers--” a groan, because he’s nudging her chin over, kissing the side of her neck,”two fingers in me when I come for you, High Lord.” 

“And after that?” 

She trembles at the surety in his voice. “You didn’t--”

“Oh come now, dove,” he purrs, voice lilting. “ _ Guess _ .” 

Elain wets her lips. “You’re going to fuck me.” It isn’t a question.

“That’s right, pet,” he murmurs, finger lazily tracing patterns just under her navel. “You’re so good for me, aren’t you?” 

She whimpers, arching towards his touch, hands reflexively pulling at the silk wrapped tight around her wrists.

“I’m going to make you come for me with my tongue and then I’m going to fuck you as long as I want, is that clear?” he finishes, and he’s already sinking down, a kiss to the top of her stomach. 

She only murmurs a response, his title, and then her mate is purring against her skin, bond hot between them.

“Spread your legs for me, then,” he growls, and she feels him shift, rising off of her torso as she peels her thighs apart, knees bent apart on the mattress. Heat floods her cheeks, unable to see where he’s looking. If it’s her face or between her legs. 

The purr of satisfaction that hums through the bond the moment a finger swipes through her folds, testing her wetness, she knows it’s not her face. 

She feels Lucien suck in a breath, body tensing, hears his growl. “You smell…” he lets his voice drift off a moment and she can picture the look of reverent contemplation on his face, all of his lust, all of his hunger burning there, not having to hide any of it, “Delicious, pet,” he purrs softly, his breath hot against the soft skin of her thighs. Elain trembles to hear him talk to her that way.  

His lips gently brush over her skin and she jerks at the gentle contact. Her whole body is drawn taut, a bow pulled back as far as it will go, straining, desperate, waiting, waiting, waiting for the release it knows will come just not when. “Easy, dove,” Lucien murmurs, the dark amusement plain in his words as he lets his hands gently run over her sides, soothing her just a little.  

Not being able to see him is both a blessing and a curse. She wants to be able to look at him, to look into her mate’s eyes and see every thought written plainly across his beautiful face. She wants to catch the faint smirks and the way his eyes flicker towards hers a moment before he kisses her, touches her, gives her some warning of what’s coming. She wants to be able to watch him pleasure her, watch what it does for  _ him _ . But at the same time not being able to do any of those things is...intoxicating. Not knowing where he means to touch her, what he means to do to her, having no warning until his lips are against her skin, his nails are creating new marks in her flesh, is driving her wild as little else they’ve done together has.  

His lips move a little higher along the inside of her thighs and she can’t help the little whimper that slips from her at the contact. Close, so close. She wants to dig her fingers into his hair, draw his mouth up to where she wants it, hold him there, guide his movements as he builds her towards another climax. Tugging feebly at her restraints again she shudders when they resist her impulses, her instincts to put her hands on her mate and hold him. 

“Patience,” Lucien admonishes, there’s a faint snarl in his words, almost disguised by the thick vein of delight pulsing through him. 

Through the bond, still raw and wide open between them, Lucien sends her an image of what she looks like to him now. Completely naked before him, her legs spread, her eyes covered by the blindfold, tugging gently on the silk ties that bind her to the headboard. Sweat coats her skin in a thin sheen and her muscles are tight, her body quivering before him. She lets a soft whine emanate from her throat at the image and at what it does to him. 

Though she know she had only intended to push the bare picture down the bond at her, the feeling that attaches itself to his thoughts arrive all the same. Desire blazes through him like the roaring wildfires that can consume the forests of the Autumn Court. Hunger tightens his stomach, intense as though he’s starving and means to devour every bit of her that she has spread out before him. And all the while, a thin thread of disbelief whispers through it all, unable to believe that she would give herself to him like this, unable to quite comprehend how much she trusts him if she could be willing to submit to him, this side of him, in this way. 

Elain knows better than to address any of the emotion that she feels barrelling through him with words. But she can’t stop herself from shifting just slightly, letting her muscles relax, her wrists going slack in her restraints, in an effort to show him that she wants this, needs this, loves this just as much as he does.  

Lucien notices. He pauses his slow, steady progress towards her centre. “That’s right,” he murmurs to her, nuzzling against her skin, “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”  

“No, High Lord,” she whispers softly, struggling to keep herself relaxed and as submissive as she can be for him. 

“Good,” he murmurs, shifting a little higher again. He groans again at the scent of her arousal and Elain knows, can feel his hair lightly tickling the insides of her thighs, the heat of his breath softly brushing against her centre, knows that soon,  _ soon _ ... 

He gently pushes her thighs a little farther apart for him, settling between them, the bed shifting with his movements. He hums softly in approval as he strokes his finger slowly through her folds, only once before withdrawing. Elain writhes a little when she receives another flash from him through the bond. The taste of her on his tongue. She whimpers uncontrollably as she realises that he must have drawn his fingers through her wetness then taken them to his mouth to suck her from them. 

“You taste divine, pet,” he growls to her and she shudders beneath him again.  

She means to open her mouth, means to beg him for it, means to tell him how much she wants this, how much she knows  _ he _ wants it, but she never manages to get the words out past the loud moan that tears from her instead, obliterating any thought of coherency. His mouth is on her without any warning and he doesn’t waste time taking it slow, building her up. He knows how wet she is for him, how much she wants this and buries his tongue between her legs, feasting on her with a satisfied growl. 

Elain bows off of the bed but Lucien snarls at her, gripping her hips tightly in his hands and pushing her back down into the mattress. She tugs sharply at her restraints again, the need to grip onto his shoulders, onto the sheets, onto  _ anything _ to try and ground herself is too much. She wants to hold him, wants to plunge her fingers deeply into his hair, to tug on it and guide him how she wants. Not that he needs much guidance. She just wants her hands to be free to seek purchase the way she needs to, feeling as though she might combust on the spot if she doesn’t have that anchor. But she can’t. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t. All she can do is take what Lucien gives her, sink so deeply into the pleasure he’s inspiring in her she becomes unaware of the instincts raging through her blood. 

“ _ Lucien _ ,” she cries, arching her head back, careful to keep her body on the bed this time, having no desire for him to stop but she can’t control her cries. It’s the only way she has to release the pressure building up at her core, the only way to take some kind of control back as he strives to ruin her however he can. “Lucien, Lucien please, please-” she whines pitifully when he draws away from her, and she has an image of him in her head, from the bond or just her own imagination she doesn’t know. His lips are wet from  _ her _ , his eyes are glittering with an untamed wildness, primal, near feral, the expression on his face dark and otherworldly and so beautiful she can’t seem to breathe. 

“Lucien?” he repeats quietly, voice low and dangerous. 

Elain whimpers again, trembling, “My lord,” she rasps out instead, her voice a hoarse whisper. “I’m sorry, my lord, I only wanted, I, I, it-” 

“A slip,” Lucien murmurs to her, his voice soft and coaxing, “A mistake,” he presses a gentle kiss to her navel. “Natural,” he purrs softly to her, “You couldn’t help yourself, could you, pet? You want to be loud for me?”

Elain whimpers again and nods her head, knowing from his tone that he wants her to answer him, “Yes, yes, I-” She breaks off when his nails bite sharply into her thigh, silencing her. 

“But it won’t happen again, will it?” he demands, his voice laced with a low, rough snarl. 

“No, no High Lord, I swear it,” she pants breathlessly, fighting the urge to tug at her restraints again, wanting to coax his mouth back between her thighs again. 

“Good,” he interrupts her again, his voice sharp and curt. But it drops, becoming softer, smoother, like thick cream, as he murmurs lovingly, “Because I don’t want you to make another sound. I will be most... _ displeased,”  _ he places a delicate stress on the word that makes her shiver at the implications of what he means, “if you do.” 

He doesn’t give her a chance to answer, barely lets her process this command, before his mouth is moving between her thighs again. 

Every muscle in her body tenses in the effort not to cry out at the surprise. He purrs in satisfaction through the bond and if she were any more coherent, she would curse him. Because he  _ knows _ what he’s doing to her. That the shock of his mouth on her will always have her gasping out his name, especially with the blindfold. 

He pulls her harder against his mouth and she’s entirely strung between the bonds at her wrists and where he’s holding her to the bed, pressing her hips still so his tongue can move against her. He knows exactly what she likes, what will work her up, get her right to the edge. He’s all too efficient at making her fall apart against his mouth and fingers.

The act of silencing her though, that ruins her entirely. There’s nothing she can do, can say, at the insistence of the pleasure his tongue sends throbbing through her, rising and rising. She can’t even move, can’t writhe against his touch, can’t tug on his hair to let out some of the tension in her, can only sink further and further into herself, breaths shallow, wound tight as a coil of wire and... he’s not even going about this as fast as she’d thought he would, had been hoping he would. He’s teasing her,  _ playing _ with her. 

She doesn’t even realize one of his hands is gone from her hips until he’s pressing two fingers into her, slow enough that she feels every movement of him in her. A low whine makes its way up through her throat, catches there. It takes everything left in her to stop herself. 

It’s all light touches, the gentle rock of his fingers, and then he’ll press down, swipe his tongue directly over her clit, and she knows he’s trying to draw a sound out of her. A whimper, a moan,  _ anything _ .

The slightest noise slips out when she lets out a breath, barely a whine, her entire body shaking, trembling as he has her like this, pinned entirely to the bed, unable to hold him, guide him how she wants it tonight, insisting he finish her.  She’s drunk, utterly  _ lost _ , on the feel of her mate having her like this. To the point where she can’t even moan. Can’t even let out her satisfaction at what he’s doing to her. Because on the surface, this  _ isn’t _ about her.

And that submission, of giving herself over to him so completely, only allowed to  _ feel _ , has her melting into the mattress.

But that sound, even the little moan on her breath, has him pausing.

He draws away and that nearly breaks her. She doesn’t want this to stop, he  _ can’t _ stop now. Need, shameless and pleading, works its way through the bond. 

“I thought I told you not to make a sound,” he murmurs, and she tries to gather herself to answer. Her cheeks feel warm, body shaking, and his fingers don’t stop moving in her. She can’t even see him, but she knows he’s watching her, can feel the firm caress of his eyes up her body, tracing over her peaked nipples, the arch of her neck as her head falls back against the pillows.

“I-I’m sorry, I’ll do better.” The words spill out of her mouth, too quickly, too breathlessly. 

“Do I need to cover your mouth myself?” he asks, and she can feel that he means it as a tease, doesn’t really intend to.

But the bond is thrown open so widely that he feels her flicker of interest, the way heat floods down to her center. She resists the urge to roll her hips against his hand, needs him to relieve the ceaseless tension in her. 

“You want me to, don’t you?” he murmurs, slightly breathlessly, almost in awe. 

She blushes a deep shade of red, but just nods.

Elain nearly lets out another noise when he eases his fingers out of her. A few moments later, one presses against her lower lip, his palm pressing over her mouth, clamping tight.

She draws in a shallow breath, arching, when he sets his mouth on her again, slower this time, no longer teasing. 

Her lips part under his grip when she realizes what he’s doing. That he fully intends to finish her now. No more teasing. No more drawing it out, not when he quickens his pace against her, licks into her entirely unguarded, shamelessly tasting her, flicking the tip of his tongue against her until she’s gasping, trembling, pulling at him through the bond. She can taste herself on his fingers, resists a groan.

Lucien is relentless against her, pulls everything he can from her, every arch, every breathless pant, every halting gasp that has her biting back a moan so hard she shakes with the effort of it. 

And finally, choking back a gasp, on her mental pleas that she needs this, needs to come for him, needs the release she only wants  _ him _ to give her, her climax tears through her. 

Pleasure bursts through her and it’s all she can do to bow off the bed, letting him pull her through it, the throbs of divine, breathless release that seize her body, hands clenching tight at her restraints.

She’s entirely ruined, limp and panting when he withdraws his hand from her mouth and it’s only then that she realizes his mouth is gone too. 

A slight jolt of surprise when he kisses her stomach, hair brushing over her skin. “I’m going to fuck you now, pet,” he murmurs, and the words are so definite, he’s so sure of himself, what he wants, that she  _ does _ let out a moan at that, still limp and boneless. But she doesn’t care that she’s still half recovering, that he would usually let her rest, give her a break, she wants him in her now, just needs him there.

He withdraws and she hears the unmistakable shift of fabric against skin as he sheds the rest of his clothes. She can only lie there, panting, half recovering, half in anticipation, and then she feels the weight of something, his hand, his elbow, pressing into the mattress just over her shoulder.

Lucien’s voice at her ear sends low heat already spilling through her. “Are you ready, dove?” She can feel the urgency pounding through him, the primal need that had sprouted as soon as he’d scented her arousal, had known how wet she was. She can feel the intoxicating flood of wants, desires he’s not holding back from tearing down the bond.

He wants to be in her. Has been imagining how she’ll feel around him, how easy it would be to slide into her.  The flare of desire in him at seeing her like this, entirely at his mercy, knowing this is what she wants first and foremost, that’s at the darkest point she can read. That even now, as he holds himself over her, reaches between them to grasp himself, she knows he wants to have her splayed out for him, wants to have her on her stomach, take a fistful of her hair and  _ pull _ on it until she’s arched perfectly taut for him. To mould her body how he’d have it. 

“Let me hear you, pet,” he growls into her ear, and she only has the feel of him nudging into her before he snaps his hips into hers, filling her in one smooth stroke.

Elain cries out incoherently in pleasure at the sensation of him being inside her at last. She had meant to bend her lips around his name, to gasp it out to him to please him but it had been impossible. At the feel of him pushing into her she had only been able to let her lips part, the sounds of her pleasure spill from her throat, utterly unable to find the will or the presence of mind to utter his name. 

It’s too much. The feel of him inside her again, over her, weight pressing down upon her, the heat of his skin so close to hers, it’s too much. She hadn’t recovered from her last climax, her body had still been trembling and hypersensitive and now this...She’s had his mouth on her, his fingers in her, has come for him twice already this evening but the stretch of him filling her is still entirely overwhelming. She doesn’t think she can breathe through it, certainly can’t think past the place that they’re so deliciously joined. 

Her breathing drops into heavy, laboured panting as she tries to find a shred of composure to cling to. She wants to grip onto his shoulders, feel the way his body moves when he thrusts into her but her hands are still bound over her head, preventing her from holding him, her mate. She lets out a faint whimper. He had told her that he wanted to hear her surely, surely that means that she can make noises for him again? 

Lucien stills, allowing her a brief moment to adjust. He sends her an image through the bond, having realised by now, no doubt, how much it ruins her each time he does this for her. This time it’s her as he sees her, her face scrunched up in pleasure, sweat beading her brow, pulling lightly on her bonds. 

Her mate extends the image, showing her what it looks like as he allows his gaze to drop lower. He shows her her body and she feels the same pulses of desire that ripple through her mate as he takes her in. The soft swell of her breasts, the peaks her nipples have made, still slick from his mouth, her heaving chest as she gasps for breath, the sheen of sweat that coats the soft planes of her stomach, dropping right down to the place where they’re joined… 

A long, low moan tears itself from Elain at that sight, heat flaming in her core, an effect Lucien had accurately predicted. Her breathing becomes ragged again and she turns her head from side to side on the pillow, desperate for just a glimpse of her mate. She writhes beneath him, pulling at her bonds and whining hungrily, rolling her hips against his, desperate for some friction, to feel him moving inside her. 

“Easy, pet,” Lucien growls to her, his voice low and rough. She goes still beneath him immediately, not wanting to do anything that will delay him or, the thought alone is utterly unbearable, cause him to withdraw from her.  

Lucien pushes his approval at her submission down the bond to her. Without warning she feels his fingers tracing soft lines over her collarbone, then they drag up over her throat before taking her chin between his first and fore. Firmly, he tilts her head so she faces him fully once more and she feels again the surge of approval through their bond. Now that they’re joined again he seems to be having more trouble containing his reactions. The bond is raw and throbbing between them, sensitive with them like this and she can feel it more strongly than she ever has since they first mated. She wonders if it, or subconsciously, her mate, are compensating for her inability to see, heightening every sense to make this experience all the more pleasurable for her, the bond included in that. 

“Do you want me to fuck you now?” Lucien asks, the heat of his breath pressed suddenly against the shell of Elain’s ear, causing her to shiver. 

She has to bite down hard on her lip to suppress her first, instinctive reply, which is to beg him desperately to  _ yes, please, now.  _ Instead she lets out a slow, tremulous breath, swallows then manages to whisper, “If, if it would please you, High Lord.” 

Lucien groans at her answer, the most out of control he’s been since they started this. She feels him shift above her, adjusting his position over her, trying to compose himself. His fingers stroke slowly, possessively, through the hair fanned out on the pillow around her. “You are a good girl, aren’t you, pet?” he croons softly to her.

Again, Elain pauses a moment to consider her answer, seeking the words that will please him most. Then she says, “Do you think I’m a good girl, my lord?” 

She feels Lucien tense above her, feels the sudden pulse of rough hunger through the bond, how the words affect him. She had known that they would, had known those were the things he had been longing to hear come from her lips but that he had not expected her to say them. He’d been anticipating the knee-jerk reactions, her desperate pleas which he could punish her for, silence her for… He hadn’t expected this and she delights in the effect that it’s having on him, the fleeting rush of power that surges through her at what she can do to him, even bound and blindfolded, lying beneath him utterly at his mercy. 

She expects him to snap, expects him to snarl and take her the way she knows he wants to, the way she needs him to. But he doesn’t. He controls himself, controls the urge, the desire, despite Elain’s shudder of pleasure at the mere thought of it, and tugs sharply on her curls instead.

“I think,” he purrs softly in her ear, “that you’re a filthy little minx,” he pulls a little harder on her hair and she cries out, arching against him. He leans down, pressing his next words, soft and harsh right into her ear, “and that you would deserve it if I press you down into this mattress and fuck you until all you can do is scream my name.” Elain can’t help the soft whimper that trembles from her at those words, the sudden throbbing heat between her legs. His fingers stroke softly, lovingly, through her hair once more and then he asks tenderly, “What do you think of that, pet?” 

“Yes,” she manages to gasp out, pulling at her restraints, just wanting him to start moving. She need him moving in her. Needs the feel of him withdrawing, snapping back into her, the sound of the bed hitting the wall.

“You think I didn’t feel how much you wanted me me to fuck you like this?” he growls, keeps the tension on her hair so her chin is tilted back. He pulls back, presses firmly back into her and she lets out a low whine.   “Do you want to know what I think?” 

She can barely catch her breath, crying out at the roll of his hips into hers, slow now, easing into her every time. He wants her to  _ feel _ this. He wants her to feel the way he fills her. The way he can take her.

“I think you’re anything but good,” he murmurs, voice tense and darker than she’s ever heard it and it’s all she can do to even attempt to move against him.  “Good girls don’t get wet when their High Lord tells them how much he wants to fuck them until they’re screaming.” 

She can’t even make any noise, can only grasp the silk around her wrists, not even struggling to hold onto him anymore, entirely ruined at what he’s saying to her, and knowing that he means it. He’s getting faster with his pace now, thrusting into her, steady, firm, and her cheeks go hot at the sounds he makes in her, making it entirely obvious the effect his words are having on her.

“Good girls don’t want their High Lord to pull on their hair hard enough to  _ hurt _ .” His voice comes out low and rough against the side of her neck, and his lips part against her skin, teeth scraping over her hammering pulse.

“They don’t want to be tied up and fucked like they deserve.” 

Elain is gasping, whimpering and writhing against him, crying out at the insistent snap of his hips into hers. 

Lucien nips along her collarbone and she can practically imagine the glint of his his teeth across her skin at the heat of his tongue dipping out to taste her. She sends him nothing but her pleasure through the bond, how much she likes this, how much she wants this, how good he feels in her. 

“You’re mine, Elain, aren’t you?” he snarls, working his way back to her ear, drawing it between his teeth. 

She can’t even nod, his hand still fisted in her hair, holding her throat back, exposed.  She whimpers an agreement.

“Everyone thinks you’re sweet and innocent, but you’re not, are you? They think you blush like a pretty little girl in bed. But you love this, you get wet just thinking about how much you want my cock in you,” he thrusts into her roughly now, drawing out her moans, their torsos slick and hot against each other. She can feel the tense set of his muscles against her stomach, the shudder in his limbs with her legs locked loosely over his hips.

His hand leaves her hair, traces down her neck, thumb tipping her chin higher. She lets him push her where he likes, confidence growing as she urges him through the bond for  _ more _ . More that she didn’t even know she wanted. Not until now. Not until he’d started saying those things to her.

She likes the praise. She likes him murmuring how good she is for him, likes to hear her mate tell her how good she feels around him, how wet she is for him. Hearing her mate growl at her though, telling her roughly as he tugs on her hair what a filthy little minx she is… this is beyond anything she ever thought she wanted.

And she doesn’t want him to stop. She doesn’t know what he’s going to say next and that’s thrilling. Everything he tells her, voice thick and low and dark as he murmurs everything she’ll let him do to her, every secret, every dirty thing he wants to do to her, wants her to take has her trembling against him.

Eventually, when she’s gasping for breath at the rough snap of his hips into hers, she lets out a moan, pushing her need through the bond. She doesn’t know if she  _ can _ . She wants to come again. Can feel the tension, aching and raw and throbbing in her, for release. And only slightly selfishly, to hear his satisfaction, wants to come around his cock. Wants to hear his reaction to her climaxing for him again… Wants to listen to what he might say to her. 

She manages to get his name out, barely a whisper. “I-I need--”

He snarls. “I  _ know _ what you need, pet,” he growls, voice hard against the side of her neck. The hand tracing over her throat travels down to her breast. She’s never felt his hands like this before. Rough. Possessive. Touching her where he wants to instead of where she asks him. 

When his fingers catch her peaked nipple, playing with her until she’s incoherent, she can only let out the noises rising in her. Every little sound she wants to make, no matter what it is. How desperate she sounds. 

“You want to come, don’t you?” 

She nods, feels his hand slip, tracing down her side. Thinking about where he might be headed, she shudders.

“You’ve already come twice,” he says, voice darkly teasing. Like he’s playing with her. “Aren’t you a greedy little thing?” 

She tries to arch towards his touch, groaning when he slows, grinds into her when he’s buried inside her, makes her feel him in her.

His fingers pause at her hip, tracing little circles on her inner thigh. The mix between hard and predatory, the snarling part of him that wants to be rough with her, take her until she can’t even scream and the part that’s teasing, cool and collected. Both of them are too much to deal with, not when she’s entirely at his mercy like this.  “You know what I think you should do? If you really do want to come again,” he says, as if he’s pondering this all too lightly. “A good girl gets to come when she asks nicely, but you’re not good, are you?”

She shakes her head, pushes out a breathless, whined, “No.” 

He practically purrs. “Then,” he growls, nipping her jaw. “Tell me what you’ll do if I give it to you. Beg me for it.” 

Elain wants nothing more than to do as she’s told. She’s never felt anything like what he’s inspiring in her now, his pace steady and swift and sure, his words dark and rough and raw. It’s too much. 

She loves the way he moves in her, the possession that laces every touch, the growl that rasps through his every word, vibrating in her chest and going straight between her legs. And the orders...The orders she likes best of all. They strip him bare, they show her precisely what he wants, what he enjoys, they give her the tools she needs to ruin him. All she has to do is obey and her lord belongs entirely to her, to every submissive gesture, every quiet whimper, every soft ‘please’ or ‘yes, lord’ and he is hers. And she is his.  

His last command is still rippling through her, still leaving her wet and breathless. Elain wants to answer him, wants to beg for it, to plead for what she needs. She knows that he can tell that she’s close, that she was on the verge of begging him for it anyway but now it will be for him, too, that she lets those desires out. But she can’t, Cauldron she can’t it’s too much. She can’t speak, she can’t  _ think _ , she doesn’t know how to do what he wants from her, can’t breathe nevermind get the words out. 

She wants him to fuck her like this, the delicious feel of him slamming home with each thrust is more than she can stand and she wants it all. She tries so desperately to yield to him in this, as with everything, but when she opens her mouth all she manages is a hoarse, incoherent whimper. 

Lucien snaps his hips sharply into hers, drawing out another soft whine, making her shudder. He takes her chin in his hand, tilting it towards him and she can scent the sweat that clings to his skin, can scent too his desperate arousal, the need that pounds into her through the bond. 

“Come now, dove,” he murmurs and his voice is low, coaxing and almost gentle. It makes her shiver. “You had such a smart mouth on you earlier, didn’t you?” he purrs softly, “Telling me just what I wanted to hear.” 

Without warning his mouth descends to claim hers. The kiss is nothing like the tender, almost chaste murmurings of his lips brushing against hers they usually share during sex. This is rough and hot and messy, a sudden clash of teeth and then his tongue is sweeping through her mouth and she’s trembling, returning this kiss for all she’s worth. She can’t grip onto his shoulders, can’t pull him down and hold him close, can’t drag her fingers through his hair and pull, can’t even see him above her but she can kiss him with every bit of rawness that’s blazing through her now. 

Lucien withdraws, panting, before she’s done with him. She whines at the sudden loss of contact, her body instinctively arching up, chasing him, seeking his mouth once more, but her restraints tighten and she’s forced to slump back down against the mattress once more. 

She can feel Lucien’s dark amusement pulsing through the bond to her as he purrs, “Surely it’s not that difficult, pet?” She shudders as she feels his thumb brush softly over her lips, teasing them open for him. “All I’m asking is for you to beg me for what I know you want.  I know you’ve been holding back this entire time from telling me exactly what you want from me. That’s all I want, dove,” he coaxes her and she arches her hips against him, desperate. “I just want you to tell me what you need.  I’m giving you the opportunity. Don’t you think it’s a little ungrateful to waste it like this?” She arches her hips against his hand as he palms her breast again, fingers tugging at her peaked nipple the way he’s discovered she likes. “Let me hear you,” he orders, his voice rasping with a sound like stone striking flint, “Come on.”  

“Lucien,” she whispers faintly. If she could just have a moment, just a moment to breathe, a moment to compose herself. But his hips are relentless as he moves inside her and she knows that it’s deliberate, knows that he’s delighting in this, in drawing this out, making it almost impossible to answer him. 

A rough snarl tears from his lips and he slows just a little, making her cry out feebly at the loss of the release that was steadily building in her core. “Do as you’re told, Elain,” he orders, his pace slowing right down, punishment for her silence, reinforced by the sharp tug she feels on her hair. “Beg me for it.”  

Elain louds out a low moan before she manages to get out, “I, I like you in me like this, my lord,” she feels Lucien still, pausing, listening, waiting. “I like it when you fuck me this way. I want- I  _ need _ \- Harder, and faster, and-” she breaks off with a sharp cry as his hip snap sharply into hers once more, burying himself in her, giving her what she wants. Lifting herself against him, matching his rhythm, Elain lets herself pant, fighting for composure, fighting to form coherent thoughts. 

“Good,” he grits out harshly, “What else?” 

“I need your hands in my hair,” Elain gets out and feels his fingers slide obligingly into it, as requested. She feels a sudden flush of heady power and control flood through her body at the realisation that he’s giving her everything she’s asking for. The thought causes the words to spill from her uncontrollably, the desires tumbling from her without a break. “I want you to kiss me again. Hard. The way you did before. I want you to pull my hair- I like it when you pull my hair, my lord. And I want, I want your hands on me, on my clit. I want you to stop teasing me and stop holding back I want, I want  _ everything _ ,” that request pours breathlessly from her lips and she shudders, her body heaving with the effort of keeping her with him as he follows every command with seamless ease. 

Her last plea breaks from her in a hoarse, desperate little whimper, “I need you to make me come now, Lucien- My lord. Please.  _ Please _ .” 

Close, so close, she’s so close. Just a little more and he knows it, can feel it through the bond because she’s letting him feel it, letting him know what he’s doing to her. 

“Shall I tell you now what  _ I _ want, pet?” Lucien murmurs and she can hear, can  _ feel  _ the wicked delight running through his words.  

She nods urgently, “Yes, my lord,” she whispers, hearing the faint growl that surges from the back of his throat at the words, his pleasure at them. 

“I want you to wait for me,” he purrs in her ear, “I want you to wait until I finish inside you. I want you to wait until I order you to come for me. Can you do that, dove?” 

Elain whimpers,  _ groans _ because she’s so close. She doesn’t want to wait. Just wants that hand stroking along her side in teasing strokes to slip between her legs. Needs him to change his angle.  _ Anything _ .

When it takes her a moment to respond, she feels him start to pull away, slowing. “No, no please, I’ll-I’ll wait, just don’t--” she gasps, “Don’t stop, don’t st--” She gives a sharp cry when he surges back into her, apparently just as unable to stop this as she is.

It’s harder and harder to hold back as she writhes against him, noises escaping with every breath. She wants what she knows she can’t have, not yet, and it’s infuriating. And she just wants…

His mouth claims hers, hard and dominant and she can barely even manage to kiss him back, trembling as he takes her again and again and again, his tongue sweeping through her mouth, hot and hungry.

He doesn’t waste time now, fucking her hard and deep and fast until she can feel the dampness of his skin against hers, the heave of his breaths as he presses his weight into hers against the mattress.  Lost in the feel of him in her, the steady pulses of throbbing satisfaction when he fills her, Elain trembles beneath him, pulling near ceaselessly at the silk around her wrists, sweating and whimpering at every move he makes.

A muttered curse slips from his mouth as he nips at her lower lip.  “You feel so good, dove.” She can’t see his face but knows he’s getting close, the growled strain in his voice all too obvious, the way his thrusts turn erratic, desperate, chasing down the pleasure that threatens to break between them.

And then he’s murmuring, voice low broken and utterly shameless, everything that seems to rise in his mind, every filthy detail about how she feels, how wet she is for his cock, how beautiful she looks spread out under him like this to the point that she’s whimpering, nearly sobbing for release.

The room feels too tight, too dense, and all she can feel, can taste, can touch, can hear, is  _ him _ .  The sound of flesh on flesh, his panting breaths at her ear, washing over her neck.  And then, without saying anything, without asking her how close she is, feeling it through the bond, he reaches between her thighs, rubs over her clit without warning.

She arches against him, unable to even make a cry, a whimper, anything more than a swift intake of breath that catches in her throat as she goes taut, body wrung entirely free from any control as her climax shatters through her, tearing through all sense of reason, every thought, collapsing her world in on itself until all she can think, can feel, is the release that pulses through her, splits her consciousness into the moments between each relentless throb of pleasure. 

It’s not until she’s returning back to herself, sweaty and drawing in heaving breaths against the flutters of sensitivity through her core that she realizes he’s slowed in her, that she can feel his own release between her thighs, the ebb of it through the bond. She feels his face buried in the bend of her shoulder, the sweat that clings to the both of them, the weight of him resting over her.

She means to say his name, but her throat feels dry, voice gone, so she nudges him through the bond.

And then he’s rising, lifting off of her, and she feels him press back a murmur of reassurance before he lifts her head slightly, pulls the blindfold from over her eyes. 

There’s a near heartbreaking gentleness to the way he tends to her now. He slips the blindfold free of her eyes then runs both of his hands softly through her hair. The movements are slow and reverent, as though he can’t quite believe that she’s real, that she’s here, that she’s  _ his _ . 

Just as quick, he releases her wrists, rubbing at her skin with circles of his thumb as she gently releases them down to settle around his shoulders.

“Elain,” he whispers softly, gazing down at her with such love in his eyes that she’s so thankful he’s already removed her blindfold to allow her to see this, to share it. “ _ Elain _ ,” he rasps out again and in that moment her name is a question that can’t help but fall from his lips as well as the answer to every dream he’s ever held within the battered confines of his heart. The question is whether or not she wants to be that answer for him.  

Reaching up, Elain gently cups his cheek in her hand, her thumb stroking tenderly over the deep scar where it falls beneath the metal eye, as she always does, wishing not for the first time that the action of drawing her hand over the wound would make it vanish. “Lucien,” she breathes, her voice a little hoarse after what they’ve done but still as soft and warm and welcoming as she can make it for him.  

Guiding him down gently she kisses him, soft and slow, nothing like the hot clashes of tongue and teeth they’ve shared so recently. She lets him deepen it, his tongue pressing into her mouth but gently, coaxingly, in a way that makes her melt, body turning soft and pliant beneath him instead of rippling with tension and anticipation. 

Lucien draws away first and she can see the faint flicker of consternation in his eyes before she feels it through the bond. He takes one of her hands in his, holding it pressed against his chest as he peers down at her, inspecting her closely, as though she’s just returned from some great battle and he’s trying to find any evidence of a wound upon her. 

“Lucien-” she begins, wanting nothing more than to soothe him, comfort him, but he interrupts, his next words tumbling from him like a change in seasons, unstoppable, inevitable. 

“Are you alright, Elain?” he demands, a crack of sharpness in his words as he continues to stare down at her, as though determined to unmask any lie she might tell to soften him before it ever reaches her lips. 

Opening the bond wide between them she allows all of the pleasure and satisfaction that’s settled comfortably in the pit of her stomach to wash through him as well. “I’m good, Lucien,” she murmurs, unable to stop the smile that spills over her face at the words, “Very good.” 

He arches an eyebrow at her, trying to set his face into something that resembles the stern High Lord but now that he’s let that mask drop she finds that it’s not so easy to hitch it back on again for these purposes. She giggles, unable to help herself and arches up to kiss Lucien’s nose. “I’m fine,” she huffs irritably, settling herself ostentatiously down on the bed beneath them and tugging him down insistently to join her. “Stop fussing,” she admonishes, stroking her fingers gently through his hair. 

But Lucien won’t be defeated that easily. Turning over onto his side, his voice serious once more despite the lightness she’s tried to inject into their morning he asks, “You’re sure?” 

It’s with difficulty that Elain resists throwing a pillow at his face, just to see if that will crack it out of the concerned cast it’s currently set into. Instead, with a dignified little sigh, she reaches forwards and kisses him again, hoping that this might soften him. 

His brow is still furrowed when she pulls away, stroking his hair back from his face, pushing it behind the point of his ear.  “Lucien,” she says firmly, lips pursing in mock severity as she looks at him. He looks like he’s bracing himself for her to tell him that there was something wrong with what they’ve done. That she was uncomfortable with it any kind of way. That he went too far. 

But she just nudges him until he rolls onto his back and she clambers over him, straddling his stomach and pressing herself over him, chest to chest. His hair is splayed out over the rumpled cream covers behind him, a slow burning fire that rolls across the landscape.  She says his name again, just for good measure as his hands come up loosely around her waist. “What we did,” she murmurs, unable to resist the smile splitting across her face at that. Leaning in again, her lips brush his before drawing back.  “I loved every,” another kiss, the hover of her breath against the corner of his mouth, “single,” the other corner this time, “moment of it.”

She presses a little harder into the light trace of his fingertips across her lower back and he seems to have calmed a little, the line between his brow gone, but he’s still not smiling.

“And,” she murmurs, nipping at his bottom lip, just enough teeth that he has his full attention plastered to her and not the hesitations, the worries she knows are running through his mind. “I want to do it again.” Quickly after, before he can say anything, “Soon.” 

He finally smiles at that, the barest, smug upturn of his lips. “ _ Soon _ , dove?” 

“Do you have a problem with me wanting that, High Lord?” she teases, pulling back to look at him and trying to hold back her smile.

“No,” he murmurs, brows raising in a lazy arch. She can already feel the pull of satisfaction, muted desire in her belly, but more than that she just wants to be there, with him, pressed skin to skin and drift off in the warm embrace of her mate’s arms. 

_ Soon _ can come later. 

Lucien’s fingers stroke gently through her hair, brushing it away from her face, smoothing it out onto the pillow behind her. She smiles, closing her eyes and letting herself sink into the soft, rhythmic sensation. After a long moment, Lucien finally manages to stop his fussing and settles down beside her. Reading her desires through the bond he wraps her snugly in his arms and presses a soft kiss to the crown of her head. 

“And you are sure, aren’t you?” he says after only a heartbeat’s peaceful silence has passed between them. Elain represses a sigh with difficulty but he must feel the gist of the feeling behind it through the bond because he lightly tweaks her nose. 

“Very sure, Lucien,” she mumbles onto his chest. Sleep is settling heavy in her body, a thick cloud of it pressing her down into the mattress, coaxing her to sink into it, to her mate. “I love you,” she murmurs, tugging him closer and at last, at last she feels him fully settle and give himself over to the fatigue that’s tugging gently but insistently at his own limbs. 

“I love you too, dove,” he breathes softly. 

Elain smiles as she feels dreams starting to sweep in to coax her from her reality. She knows that her mate will lie beside her, holding her, drawing those soft, sweet patterns on her skin and will keep her safe until she wakes in his arms next morning. With a soft sigh of contentment, Elain burrows happily against Lucien and allows herself to drift off to sleep, spent and warm and happy with her mate beside her. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and please comment!


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